


The Opening Act of Spring

by FranceBe4Pants



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Attempted Murder, Dad!Javert, French, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Serial Killers, kind of dark?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranceBe4Pants/pseuds/FranceBe4Pants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosette tells him the bakery is only three streets away from the bureau. Cosette tells him they use fair trade products and authentic French recipes. Cosette tells him that the chocolate fudge is sweet and so is the staff.<br/>This guy, with thick, black hair and blue eyes and really muscular biceps, is not sweet. What are the requirements to get a job here? Wanted: Ripped, rugged and tattooed with perfect three-day stubble?</p><p>(Or, the detective/French bakery AU no one asked for)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opening Act of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished this monster! Yay ^^ Feedback is apprechiated very much!!

Why is he always the one that ends up in leather pants?

Enjolras shifts on the bar stool and stares at his Martini. He really, really hates Martinis, but Bahorel said it gave him a classy air or something. Whatever. He can practically hear the olive mocking him.

“Why the sour face, darling?”

A man places his heavy cologne-drenched body next to him while he tries to push the common boundaries of personal space in a way that’s probably supposed to be subtle. Enjolras rolls his eyes and plasters a smile on his face while turning his body towards the idiot next to him. Also, ‘darling’? So two-thousand and late.

“Just lonely, actually.”

The man smirks, like a shark who doesn’t realise his teeth are about to be bluntened. “I can fix that.”

God, this whole situation is so cliché that Enjolras sort of wants to cry. Or beat this guy to death with his Martini glass. Too bad that these nights are part of his job and, if he wants to pay his rent this month, he can’t make fun of horrible, terrible men.

He blinks a couple of times and tilts his head. “Can you?” he says, wondering if eyelash-batting would be too much right now. The guy smirks again and slides his hand up Enjolras’ tight, who spreads them a little bit wider in a silent invitation. Licking his lips, he waits for the guy’s next move.

“Want me to show you?” He can hear Bahorel’s snickering in his left ear. The guy tightens his grip on his leg and Enjolras fights the urge to kick him in the face. “I know a perfect place.” he smirks.

The snickering in his left ear gets louder. Shrugging away every other thought, Enjolras looks at him from under his eyelashes. “What are you waiting for, then?” he says, sliding off his stool. While he lets the guy pay for his drink, he makes sure the movement of his hips shows off his ass. Which is not hard, considering the ridiculous pants he’s wearing.  

The guy grabs Enjolras’ wrist and drags him towards the back exit. What a surprise. He must’ve put a lot of thought into this.

The guy pushes him against the wall next to the door and, oh, surprise again, they’re in an alley and there’s a pair of hands on his ass. Sometimes he really hates his job.

Enjolras waits until the guy’s hands are back on his wrist, and pulls. The guy laughs, definitely not expecting that. Enjolras smirks, pushes him so he falls against the filthy bricks. The guy is struggling now, and he really doesn’t have the time for this. He uses a bit more of his body weight and locks the handcuffs in place.

“What the fuck?!” The guy yells. Enjolras puts a hand on his shoulder and drags him towards the police van that’s waiting for them.  

“Oh, yeah, that. You’re under arrest.”

***

Cosette tells him the bakery is only three streets away from the bureau. Cosette tells him they use fair trade products and authentic French recipes. Cosette tells him that the chocolate fudge is sweet and so is the staff.  

Now, ‘sweet’ is not the word Enjolras would use to describe the guy in front of him. There are a lot of words, but sweet is not one of them.

This guy, with thick, black hair and blue eyes and _really_ muscular biceps, is not sweet. What are the requirements to get a job here? Wanted: Ripped, rugged and tattooed with perfect three-day stubble?

“Can I help you?”

His voice is deep bitter and faintly amused, with the slightest rough edge to it, probably caused by smoking and Enjolras wants to rip his stupidly tight shirt off.

Enjolras also really, really doesn’t have time for this. He still has to do a mountain of paperwork, since they caught the wrong guy last night. It’s the only excuse he has for the snapped; “Grande caffe mocha, no sugar, no whipped cream, extra dry, with half skim, half full milk. No I don't want 2% milk, just a mixture of the both. And strawberry syrup, mix with the milk, then the coffee.”

The guy nods solemnly, eyes sparkling and walks to the coffee machine, leaving Enjolras fumbling at the counter. Suddenly, two hands cover his eyes and the room smells of roses.  Yes, roses, because his sister is an actual Disney princess.

“You came!”

He turns around and accepts her hug. “Of course I came. Can’t leave you without moral support on your first day, can I?”

Behind him is a faint choking noise. Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Cosette, this is my new colleague, Marius.”

Marius is red, very red. Even the tips of his ears are colored, and there’s the sound of snickering on his left. “Your coffee, sir.” Hot Barista says, smirk still on his face.

Oh, and what a smirk. It’s Enjolras’ turn to blush. Cosette’s eyes flick to his face because his sister is an evil genius. “Enje, I see you’ve met R?”

Enjolras picks up his coffee and balances his stack of manilla folders on one arm. He glances at Hot Barista -R- and mumbles; “Yes.”

R smiles at him, a genuine smile that’s so beautiful it leaves him breathless and for a moment, a sparkle of hope starts to grow in Enjolras’ chest.

“That’ll be three eighty-five.”

The sparkle dies.

Fifteen minutes later, Enjolras is pretending really hard to not stare at R’s back while he’s cleaning tables, when a voice shouts; “Look who crawled out of his office!”

Courfeyrac, Éponine and Montparnasse strut in. They can be a terrifying trio, with their outfits and smirks always on point, but Enjolras has seen Courfeyrac cry over Bambi. He just rolls his eyes and continues filling out his forms.

Montparnasse steals a sip of his coffee and wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Jesus, on the liquid sugar tour again, captain?” Enjolras groans and massages his temples and tries to ignore the fact Montparnasse is wearing blue glitter pants and his gold leather jacket. “It’s been a rough day. I’ve deserved it.”

Éponine smirks and slides in the chair next to him, expression faltering when he places his arm over his folders, blocking her view. “Wanna talk about it?”

“And read it in the paper tomorrow? No thanks.” Enjolras says and steals his drink back from Montparnasse. From the corner of his eyes, he can see that Marius is sort of trying to order a latte. Or flirt with his sister, he doesn’t know. “Oh, you guys have to meet someone. Marius!”

The boy spins so fast he almost falls over. “Yes?”

Enjolras gestures between the trio at his table. “Courfeyrac, Montparnasse, Eponine.” They all wave, and Marius walks to the table. “Is this the newest addition to your boyband, Enje?” Courf asks, eyes lightening up with mischief.

Oh-oh.

“Leave him alone.” Enjolras warns. He hadn’t told Marius about the three journalists yet because the last days have been very hectic. Now, when he sees the predatory smirks, he wishes he would. “They’re reporters for _The Real Deal_.”

Enjolras feels that Courfeyrac is going to interrogate Marius somewhere between now and the very near future. He knows that face anywhere. He’s going to suck every bit of information out that the new officer possesses. Quite literally, judging by the smolder the reporter throws in the new recruit’s direction.

Luckily, Marius chooses that moment to spill his latte and in his shock, Enjolras’ mocha, all over Enjolras.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry, I swear...” he stammers, cheeks on fire. Enjolras shoves his folders in Marius’ direction and jumps up, trying not to drip coffee over all his hard work. “Shit.” The stain on his shirt stares innocently back at him. There’s the sound of laughter behind him and Cosette grabs a napkin to clean the table. Enjolras wants to cry.

“Listen, Marius,” he says, taking back his folders from the blushing man and aware of the fact that his voice is very deep and very, _very_ angry. “I’ve had about zero hours of sleep and three yesterday. Last night was planned for weeks and turned out unsuccessful. I have about five reports that need to be on Lamarque’s desk like, yesterday. You know what that means? You’re going to get me a grande triple espresso, _now_.”

Marius face changes from red to white so fast Enjolras would be worried if he wasn’t so angry, and runs to the counter. Enjolras puts the folders in his bag and hides his face in his hands. Sighting, he slumps back in his chair. “It’s a good kid, really.”

Marius comes back with trembling hands and a gorgeous steaming espresso.

Suddenly, a plate with five cupcakes appears on their table. When he turns around, he sees R grinning down at him. There’s flour on his nose and Enjolras wants to bury his hand in that dark hair and show him what he thinks of that, exactly.

Cosette winks from behind the counter, and Marius almost falls out of his chair. “On the house, officers.”

***

The thing with Grantaire’s dad is that he’s always taking care of everyone but himself. So when he came back from his doctor’s appointment all those years ago with the message that he had to eat healthier, Grantaire made it into his personal mission to make sure he actually did.  

Of course it became a bit more difficult when he moved out, but he still checks up regularly. Sometimes, he even brings him a delicious, healthy lunch. This is one of those times.

Fantine had winked at him when he walked out, arms full with whole-grain sandwiches and juice. “ _Pour ton père?_ ” she’d asked. After his smirked “ _Oui. De nourriture pour le détective. J’espere il la apprecie._ ” her loud laugh had followed him out of the Musain.

Now he’s here, in front of the police station he practically grew up. He pushes the still too-heavy door open and walks past his dad’s office. First things first, delivery in the name of aspiring love, because he can play cupid if he wants to, damn it.

“Inspector Valjean?”

Valjean looks up from his computer. “Grantaire? What a surprise.” Grantaire smiles and holds up the coffee Fantine had pressed into his hands this morning, burning cheeks. “ _Avec_ les _salutations de Fantine_.” It’s kind of endearing to see a gigantic man like Valjean blush. “Thank her for me, will you?”

Grantaire salutes and walks out of the office. Mission accomplished. Push ‘A’ for next assignment. He knocks on a heavy wooden door, smiling when he sees the plaque with _Deputy-Inspector G. E. Javert_.

“Dad? You there?”

A groan. “You better not be here to feed me your rabbit stuff again, R.” Grantaire smirks and pushes the door open. Holding his bag in the air, he says; “Too late.”

After rolling his eyes, Javert smiles when Grantaire places the juice on his desk. “So, son, how’s business?” he says with his mouth full of homemade bread. Grantaire shrugs. “Pretty good. Jehan’s cupcakes are a success, but that was to be expected. We have a new colleague, Cosette, she’s awesome.” His dad nods and takes another bite.

“I’ve been trying Mom’s recipes.” Grantaire says, breaking the silence that hangs between them. The sandwich freezes between his dad’s napkin and mouth. He puts it down and leans back in his chair, a habit Grantaire copied from him when he reached puberty and just wanted to look as cool as his badass dad did. “You’ve been, now.”  

Grantaire fumbles with his sleeve. “They’re a success.” he says, watching his dad’s face light up. “Maybe I should come around then, one of these days.”

Grantaire smiles back. “You definitely should.” he says, while standing up. “Let me spy on your eating habits, oh father mine.” He ducks for the napkin that is thrown in his direction and sprints out of the office, cackling loudly.

His cackling is cut off when his body hits something and he flies back with a surprised “oof”.

“Oh, shit, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention at all but Combeferre called and it sounded as if it was urgent and I really didn’t see you which is weird since you’re very tall and not to miss at all and oh...” A small, elegant hand curls around his elbow and yanks him up. Grantaire stumbles a bit around, only to find himself looking down at Cosette’s Incredibly Hot Brother, Enjolras. Who, apparently, is not really good with people. They were right when they said that nobody’s perfect, then.

The sunlight reflects on his blond hair and Grantaire finds himself staring into pale eyes, breathless like never before. Well, _nearly_ perfect, then.

“Nah, it’s okay, officer.” he grabs his bag and turns around, fully intending to go back to the Musain, when the hand is back on his elbow. Grantaire really hopes he’s not blushing.

“Uh, where are you going?” Somehow, Enjolras can make it sound like both an accusation and a socially awkward conversation-starter. How is he even related to Cosette, and Valjean. Jesus, Valjean could probably single-handedly solve every conflict in the world.

Grantaire stares into grey eyes and loses his train of thought. Where _was_  he going?  

“The Musain.” he says, making sure he’s staring at the hand on his elbow. “You know, where I work.” Enjolras removes his hand, and Grantaire instantly misses it. The officer starts awkwardly fumbling with nothing at all, and that’s a talent to be acknowledged. “Can I walk with you? I promised Cosette I’d drop by for lunch since apparently, you have new pastries?” he half-asks and Grantaire almost coos. Almost. Cute police officers are his weakness, apparently.

“Yeah, of course.”

The walk to the Musain is short, silent and Grantaire is continuously asking himself how this guy is co-detective next to his dad, because no matter how hot he is, he can’t hold a conversation to save his life.  Somehow he gets through it without embarrassing himself, even though he’s the only one talking. He’s a weird mix of disappointed and relieved when they step into the cafe. “Fear no more, for I have returned.”

Fantine rolls her eyes from behind their juice bar and Cosette stifles a giggle in her sleeve. Suddenly, a voice from behind rumbles; “So here you are, Detective.”

The voice belongs to a gigantic man with dark hair and a police uniform. Enjolras, in his turn, just smirks. “I’m having lunch, Bahorel. By the way, shouldn’t you be finishing that paperwork I gave you?” The guy, Bahorel, starts to grin. “Nope. But I have cupcakes.” he says, holding up a plate with eight cupcakes. Enjolras rolls his eyes, a familiar gesture that shows he knows Bahorel for a long time. Grantaire wonders if the awkward man-boy from three minutes ago was a hallucination.

Grantaire grabs his apron from behind the counter, but in the middle of tying it, he gets distracted by Enjolras laughing about something. His head is thrown back and suddenly beautiful doesn’t quite describe him, with those pale eyes and skin. Grantaire wants to invent a new word that does describe him. Grantaire wants to touch him, wants to kiss him and get his hands in that hair. He wants to wake up next to him.

He’s so fucked.

Cosette elbows him in the ribs. “Quit staring at my brother, there’s work to be done.” and she leaves Grantaire sputtering, apron in his hands.

***

Courfeyrac is singing under the shower.

Enjolras rolls towards the side of the bed and looks on his radio. Thursday, 8AM. Valjean forced him to take today off. He doesn’t have to get up at all, and Courfeyrac is singing under the shower.

Enjolras is going to _murder_ him.

On his way to revenge, he meets Combeferre, who quirks a questioning eyebrow at his furious expression. Enjolras’ hands flail in the direction of the bathroom door, and Combeferre lets him pass, amused and prepared to watch the spectacle that will be the death of- “ **COURFEYRAC!!** ”

There’s a squak, the high-pitched sound of feet slipping and muffled cursing. “Enje, what the fuck, man?” Courfeyrac appears with a towel around his waist, pink bubbles still in his hair and confusion in his eyes. He pales at the sign of Enjolras.

“You were singing.” Enjolras says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and blocking the escape route. “It’s 8AM, and _you were singing_.”

Courfeyrac swallows. “Listen, man. I’m sorry but I totally forgot and then Éponine called and I was so happy, so happy.” Enjolras squints his eyes. Courfeyrac is a journalist at heart, only big scoops make him ‘so happy, so happy.’ And since Enjolras’ (Actually it’s Javert’s, but who cares?) unit is trying to catch the serial killer of the century, he has the right to be suspicious. His thoughts are interrupted when Combeferre stalks in his direction.

“Get dressed. Javert called, we have a new vic.”

That explains Courfeyrac’s behavior, then. Enjolras runs back to his room and yanks on his uniform. When he walks into the kitchen, Combeferre has already poured coffee in three travel mugs. He’s waiting patiently, smiling away at something on his phone.

“Ready?” Enjolras asks. Combeferre just rolls his eyes in lieu of an answer.

***

Sometimes, Enjolras fucking hates Montparnasse. That’s why he doesn’t feel any remorse at all when he watches the grinning man getting kicked off their crime scene, camera and all, by Combeferre.

Courfeyrac is already sulking behind the yellow tape. The only challenge left is Eponine. Enjolras takes that one, because lately Combeferre has been behaving strangely around the dark-haired fury reporter.

“Ms. Thenardier, we strongly suggest you remove yourself from the scene and stand behind the tape.” he throws in a little bit his of customary icy glare. Éponine smirks. “Whatever, pretty boy,” she says, and follows Montparnasse. Enjolras shoves her good-naturedly and turns around, on his way to join the rest of his unit, back to the bureau.  

***

“The atropine level in her blood is astonishing. Fascinating, really.”

“Joly, focus. I need that report.”

Enjolras leans against the cold, metal examination table in Joly’s lab. Joly is staring with one eye into the microscope while his right hand is scribbling furiously on a notepad. There are pens in his hand, behind his ear, in his back pocket, in his hair and even one in his sock. With that, notes on probably every dead body from the past four weeks.

This is the fourth victim. The fourth victim in four weeks, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with it. He wants to tear his hair out.

Here’s the thing about this that nobody tells you about this job. It eats you away. The dead eyes of the victims haunt him, every single case again. And the worst is, it doesn’t stop. It never stops.  This killer, this sick person, is _playing_ with lives. It’s clear when you look at the set-up. The victim is always surrounded by flowers, hands folded and eyes closed. Make-up and outfit spotless, like an out of place Snow White.

The flowers are the first reason for their killer’s nickname. The poisons are the second. All organic, coming from plants or fruits found in the stomachs of victims. The Botanist, a name Joly had muttered one day. Enjolras doesn’t like to give serial killers nicknames. First of all because it humanizes them, and secondly because it gives them the recognition some of them are going for.

“The victims weren’t raped, were they?” Enjolras asks, pen stopping at the ‘rape’ box on his form. Joly shakes his head, still looking through the microscope. Enjolras sighs.

“Nothing seems to be about sex.” Joly mumbles. “Make-up applied post mortem, outfit probably too. He’s treating them like his very own Barbies.”

“And getting cocky.” Javert says from the doorstep. “He left this one in a park. The first one was in a dumpster. With flowers, but in a dumpster nonetheless.” The inspector runs a hand through his hair, and Enjolras knows he’s not the only one who’s been having sleepless nights about this. “He wants the recognition he thinks he deserves.” With that, he leaves.

“Or, she.” Joly says. “Look at the make-up. This could easily be a woman. She could even be dressing them from her own wardrobe. All victims have roughly the same posture, after all.”

Bahorel’s heavy footsteps stop in front of the lab. “Victim still a Jane Doe?” he asks, casually chewing on an apple. Joly shakes his head and huffs. “What kind of coroner do you think I am? Name of the victim is Elizabeth Mortimer, 23 years old. She probably went to college here.”

Enjolras jumps away from the table. “Bahorel, take Combeferre. I want to know everything about this girl. Family, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends. Hell, even if her gym subscription has expired and the color of her favorite socks.”

Bahorel salutes. “Sir, yes sir.”

Enjolras jams the pen in his pocket. “I’m going to look to the information we have from the previous victims. There should be a thing that connects them.”

***

“ _R, la glaçage,_ c'est fini _?_ ”

Eight days after bumping into Enjolras, Grantaire dips a tablespoon in the lavenders glaze he’s working on. “ _Un minute, s’il te plait._ ” He carries the bowl and a clean spoon with him into the front of the bakery. “Cosette, you need to taste something for me.”

The blonde turns around, smiling. Sometimes Grantaire wonders if Cosette is actually a Disney princess or what. Marius certainly seems to think so. She dips the spoon into the purple glaze and licks. “It’s fantastic!”

“Great,” he says and runs back to his éclairs. “ _C’est presque fini, Fantine_.”

He glazes his éclairs and runs back to the front, where Fantine is waiting for him. “Amazing, ” she says, taking the éclairs from him. “Can you do the muffins as well? I’ll pack these for Feuilly.” Grantaire runs back to save his blueberry muffins.

It’s a typical day in the Musain, with them running around getting orders ready, and Feuilly waiting to transport them to customers. He can’t remember when they began with letting customers take out as well, but it’s been like this for years, already when he was still in college and doing Saturday morning shifts.

Feuilly sips his coffee and smiles at him when Grantaire presents him with the box of muffins he’s been waiting for. “Okay, just checking: Sixteen éclairs, thirty-two blueberry muffins, thirty-two croissants and one hundred twenty-eight hazelnut-caramel macarons?” Grantaire nods. He’s been baking since six this morning. Especially the macarons were a bitch. “Someone’s getting one hell of a late lunch.” he jokes, while he sags down in a leather chair.

Feuilly grins and grabs all the boxes. “I'll be back for the next order in half an hour.”  Grantaire glances at the clock. Two-thirty. The croissants are in the oven. The raspberry-chocolate macarons are cooling down and the _pain-au-chocolat_ is in Fantine’s more than capable hands. He has time for a break.

“Ah, Grantaire. Busy day?” Valjean smiles at him, and his eyes rank over the other customers, not-so-subtly looking for Fantine. Grantaire smiles back. “She’s making _pain-au-chocolat_ in the back.” Valjean blushes and Grantaire walks to the coffee machine, grinning, to make Valjean’s usual.

Suddenly, a whirlwind of florals rushes through the shop and climbs the inspector, who almost falls over in shock. “Papa!” Valjean laughs, loud and careless, a laugh that’s normally reserved for Fantine. “Daughter. How is the new job?”

Cosette jumps down from her father’s back and brushes the wrinkles from her apron. “Really amazing!” She joins him behind the counter. “Do you want anything with the coffee?”

“Yeah, Fantine.” Grantaire says. Cosette smacks him at the back of his head. “R!” Grantaire smirks and hands a blushing Valjean his coffee. “Almond-lemon pastry?”

“ _Grantaire_ , _tu peux faire de massepain à les petits-fours_?” shouts a voice from the back of the bakery. He sighs. There goes his break.

“ _Oui, mais un peu de patience. Valjean est ici, et il voudrait son amandier-citron gâteau_.” Valjean colors red, again, and Grantaire smiles. There’s clattering from the back, and Fantine appears. A streak of green decorates her cheek. She’s slightly out of breath, and in her turn, colors as well when her eyes fall on Valjean. “Jean.” They smile.

In her hands is a plate with a single almond-lemon pastry from the batch Grantaire has made this morning. He clears his throat.

“I’m going to prepare the _petits-fours_  before Feuilly comes back _._ ” While he walks back into the kitchen, he hears Fantine and Valjeans awkward conversation, with Cosette’s chirping in between, and smiles to himself.

When he’s finished with the orders of the day, Feuilly is waiting for him. “This all for one adress, right?” the redhead says, while patting his pockets for a lighter to go with the cigarette that is dangling from his lips. Grantaire nods, and sort of collapses into a chair.

“If I have to touch dough one more fucking time, I’m going to break shit.” He rests his head against the cool table and lets Fantine pets his hair soothingly.

“Well, it’s almost closing time. Why don’t you leave early tonight? Cosette has just started her second shift anyway.” she says, smiling down at him.

“It’s that late, already?” Grantaire complains with his head still on the table. “Almost six.” Fantine says, while slipping into the chair next to him. They both just sit for a while, when a loud group of people enters the bakery and Grantaire has to decide he’s going to kill them all.

At least there will be peace and quiet in prison.  

But then he looks up, sees the whole Homicide unit, and his heart literally skips a beat, because that’s Enjolras. He’s laughing with Bahorel about something, head tipped back and pale throat bared again and there are things happening inside Grantaire’s stomach. He jumps up, exhaustion be damned.

Marius is already making goo-goo eyes at Cosette, and Enjolras stalks to the counter, big steps from a small man. He stops right in front of Grantaire and stares at him. And stares. Grantaire is very uncomfortable. And charmed. He has a problem.

“Are you going to order anything, or are you just going to glare at people? Because then I would really like to help Marius in his Woo The Cosette masterplan. It’s possibly involving my cherry chocolate cupcakes.”

Enjolras scowls. “Venti triple espresso, grande caramel macchiato, two grande strawberry frappuccinos, tall iced Americano, tall chai latte...”

“Dude, we’re not a Starbucks. Slow down.” Enjolras repeats his order without the ridiculous Starbucks slang and Fantine moves around the machines like an octopus.

Ten minutes later, Grantaire throws a napkin to his blond head. “Yo, officer. Your order is done.”

Enjolras scowls again. A tall, dark-skinned colleague comes to save him. “You know what, give me that.” he says, and grabs the two tall cups.  “Combeferre, get your ass over here!” someone yells, a small, handsome man, though still taller than Enjolras. Grantaire believes he’s called something that start with a C and ends on a harsh vowel, _ak_ or something.

He’s still trying to remember the name when Feuilly comes in, who immediately runs over to them and flunks his head on the counter. “I’m not driving anymore, today. Wait, make that my life.”

Grantaire chuckles and Fantine pets his hair. Feuilly groans and jumps up again, as if this moment of weakness never happened. “Gotta prepare for next shift.” he says, face contracting in dismay. Grantaire stares at the circles around his eyes. “Garage?”

“Restaurant.” Feuilly says, and rubs his eyes. Fantine and Grantaire exchange looks. He is looking around for his jacket when a booming voice exclaims; “Feuilly! Guys, you have to meet Feuilly.” Bahorel sprints to the counter, and the Homicide unit follows.

Feuilly’s face is carries a small smile now, and Fantine exchanges a look with Grantaire again, though this time it’s for something good. Bahorel is animatedly chatting away, introducing all his friends to the no-longer-tired redhead.

“This is Enjolras, and Combeferre and Bossuet and Marius,” Bahorel gestures to the police officers, “and that are Courfeyrac,” aha Grantaire thinks, “Éponine and Montparnasse.” The trio looks vaguely terrifying, and pretty. So pretty. Not as pretty as Enjolras, but pretty nonetheless. Montparnasse is wearing a black leather jacket and a t-shirt with daffodils on it, sea-green skinny jeans and glitter boots, and he might be pretty, he's giving Grantaire a headache.

Suddenly Bossuet’s phone rings. “Jolllly!” He smiles and makes a few humming noises. “Please put the heart down, Jol. I’m not cleaning the blood of your phone again.”

“Joly is the coroner,” Bahorel whispers at Feuilly’s (and Grantaire’s and Fantine’s) bewildered face. “He gets excited about organs and calls Bossuet.” The rest of the group is making jokes and acting normal, as if this happens every day.

Police officers are so fucking weird. And Grantaire was raised by one, he can judge.

A little while later, Cosette and Marius are blushing and possibly talking with each other, Bahorel and Feuilly are listening to music on the police officer’s phone, Combeferre and Éponine are whispering in the corner and Grantaire smiles because young love.

Fantine hits him with a towel. “Tell them to leave and then go home. My daily Grantaire limit has exceeded. ” Grantaire jumps over the counter, ignoring Fantine’s yelling, and walks to the loud group.

“We’re closing, losers.” he says. “Well, losers, except Feuilly. But you still gotta leave man. Don’t you have to be at the restaurant in half an hour?” Feuilly curses and hastily excuses himself, and everybody gets up to leave after him.

Grantaire grins and follows them out to the parking lot, which is filled with his own van, two police cars, two motorcycles and a unicycle. It doesn’t surprises Grantaire the slightest when Courfeyrac walks to the unicycle. That guy oozes ‘special’ from his pores. He sees Enjolras looking at him, winks, and steps in his van.

Time to sleep for a century.

***

A week later, Enjolras is seriously considering quitting his job.

He’s in the Musain, bowed over his paperwork and victim information and nothing makes sense, nothing links them together in any sort of way, and at the same time, everything does. All the victims have the same hobbies, art in some sort of way, dancing and reading. The go-to hair color used to be blond, but it’s getting darker. They were all female, but the last one turned out to be transgender. Female in every field but her birth certificate.

He groans and buries his face in his hands. A cup appears at his side, steaming and fresh, accompanied by a piece of red velvet cake.

“You know, more coffee probably isn’t a good idea.” he says. Next to him, someone chuckles, and Enjolras’ hand drops his pen. He looks up to find Grantaire grinning down at him. His breath catches in his throat at the sign of messy, dark hair, the twists and whorls of tattoos and big blue eyes streaked with whirls the color of a stormy ocean. He smiles and his heart surges in a feeling that feels suspiciously like adoration.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Grantaire says, grin tuning down to a soft smile, and Enjolras ignores the squirming of his insides and smiles back.  

When he’s with Grantaire, smiling just comes that much easier. It has something to do with the crooked and beautiful smile that is returned and sometimes even a laugh, the booming, carefree sound making Enjolras’ heart stutter in his chest.

“It’s tea. Decaf.” Grantaire says. “And when you’ve finished it, I’m kicking you out. You need to sleep, hero boy.” With that, he walks back to the counter.

Enjolras blushes at the nickname. Was that flirting? Flirting is not his thing, it’s what Courfeyrac does, because he lives and breathes charm. Trying to remember any of the things Courfeyrac has ever said to one of his targets, he sips on his tea. Fuck, Enjolras is using Courfeyrac as a role model, it must be freezing in hell.

As on cue, Courfeyrac and Combeferre tumble into the cafe. Courfeyrac’s eyes flash to where Enjolras is staring at Grantaire and smirks. Enjolras feels his cheeks heat up, and scowls, but Courfeyrac tuts and ruffles his hair.  “Oh come on, Enjolras, we all know about your crush.”

“Grantaire knows?”  he mentally smacks himself when his voice comes out shrill and panicked. Well, that was subtle.

“Let’s not talk about that, shall we.” Combeferre says, absolutely not calming Enjolras down at all.

“Fine,” Courfeyrac says, pointing at Enjolras’ untouched cake, “let’s talk about whether or not you’re going to eat that.”

Enjolras wordlessly pushes his plate across the table, only to take it back when Combeferre clears his throat and throws him a look. “Eat that. Then, we’re going home. You-”

“Need to sleep. See, I’m not the only one who says that, hero boy.” a voice yells from behind the counter.

Enjolras turns red, again, and shoves the cake into his mouth. He should definitely go home, before he embarasses himself more.

***

Their next victim is found the garden behind the Musain.

Grantaire’s voice is shaking on the phone, and Enjolras’ rage against this killer grows. He ends the call with the promise that they’ll be there as soon as possible, and marches to Combeferre’s desk. “They found victim number five at the Musain.”

The man puts his pen down and shoves away his paperwork. “Okay,” he says. “We’re going to go to the beginning of that sentence.”

“You heard me.” Enjolras snaps, already collecting his jacket. “Marius! Be at the Musain in five, and take Bahorel and Joly.” The boy nods and pushes his chair back. Valjean and Javert are already waiting for them outside the station. They nod to each other, and drive to the Musain in silence.

They never make it.

Halfway, both the police cars break down. Javert lets out a stream of colorful curses, Enjolras kicks a tree, and he’s pretty sure Bahorel is breaking pencils in the back of their not-longer-driving car.

They’re sabotaged. Probably by their murderer, which means he is very close. It also means that he’s getting away with this, as the police team can never make it to the crime scene now. He kicks a second tree.

Fifteen kicked trees later, Javert sighs, gets out his phone and starts texting furiously. Enjolras is now scowling at passerbies. Combeferre, Marius and Joly are playing a game of I Spy and Valjean and Bahorel are arm wrestling on the hood on one of the broken cars.

Suddenly Combeferre’s phone chimes and he starts smiling down at the screen. “Why are you looking like that?” Enjolras asks. Combeferre looks up. “Like what?” He’s already texting back, too engrossed in his message to stop smiling. Or maybe he’s just happy. That’s it. “Happy.” Enjolras says. The whole group turns to him, silent. He winces. “That came out wrong.” he says. “But I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

Joly grins. “It’s probably Eponine.” he pokes Combeferre in his arm, who blushes spectacularly.

“Wait,” Enjolras says. “You and Eponine? Since, when?”

Everybody bursts out laughing. Enjolras colors, but Combeferre lays a hand on his arm, eyes kind. “You are,” he begins, “One if my oldest, dearest friends.” Enjolras smiles, because hell yes, he is. Combeferre and he met in their first year of middle school when they both wanted to check _The Communist Manifesto_ out in the school library. Courfeyrac joined them a month later, or as he likes to call it, ‘changed their lives with the huge amount of awesomeness that’s me.’ “But you are also terribly, amazingly ignorant, and Courfeyrac owes me twenty bucks.”

Enjolras glares. Bahorel shakes his head. “Enjolras, Éponine was staying over at your apartment.”

He shrugs. “I just figured that she and Montparnasse were fighting again.” Combeferre’s face darkens at the mention of Montparnasse. “How’s he taking it?” Enjolras asks, knowing he has to be careful or change the subject very soon.

The thing is, when he met Eponine, he kind of assumed that she and Montparnasse were together. To be honest, everybody did. They have a weird dynamic that’s between friends and siblings, and they’re always all over each other.

Montparnasse is...Special is the best word for it. Dangerous may not be the best word, but it would be the most accurate of them all. For starters, Montparnasse doesn’t smile. Montparnasse smirks, or he grins and cackling is not above him. Sometimes he tilts his head back and laughs out loud, but only in a way that makes you think someone just fell down a flight of stairs and he was the one to trip them.

Montparnasse is also an ex-assassin who carefully erased everything that could be traced back to him, and went back to the light side of life. Enjolras only knows this because he saw him destroy seven men in a fight none of their friends mention, ever, and the whole story came out. Maybe it was because it was the fight that resulted into Eponine’s criminal parents handing over Gavroche’s custody to her. Maybe it was because Montparnasse lost his shit as soon as a knife touched her skin.

“He knows.” Combeferre says, and Enjolras wants to reply to that, but the ugliest van he’s ever seen stops next to their cars and someone steps out. “Yo, dad. I heard you and your boy band of cops needed a ride?”

For a moment, Enjolras can’t breathe. _Grantaire_.

Javert sighs. “Thanks, son. Give me a minute, I’ve to make a few calls, the scene is probably ruined by now.” Valjean places a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make sure the body is shipped to the morgue.”

Ten minutes later, they’re all in the wreck that calls itself Grantaire’s van. “This thing is atrocious,” Enjolras says. Combeferre smacks him on the back of his head. “Behave.”

Grantaire chuckles. “No, it’s okay. I know she’s not the prettiest thing on the planet, though I think hero boy here should learn that the world is not always pretty. But, to be honest, if I saw a face like that in the mirror every day, I’d be convinced the world was filled with beautiful things, too.” He winks at Enjolras through the rearview mirror and Enjolras’ heart makes a squeaking noise in his chest.

When they finally arrive at the scene of the crime, the Musain is dark. Feuilly is waiting for them on the porch, arms crossed in front of his chest. Bahorel’s face brightens when he spots him, then freezes when the lights of the car illuminates the redhead’s face. To say that Feuilly looks unhappy would be an understatement.

“I thought I left dead bodies behind me when I left the army.” he says when they step out. “You were in the army?” Bahorel asks, surprised. Feuilly’s expression softens and he smirks. “Yeah. I’ve been a hairdresser, dolphin trainer, stripper and getaway driver, too.”

“Don’t forget the year you joined the circus.” Grantaire yells from the van. “Oh, yeah.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not why you guys are here. C’mon, this way to the dead body.”

With that, everybody is back in full police mode. They follow Feuilly to the back of the Musain, which appears to be a garden filled with small tables and chairs.

It’s quite warm for an April night, and a wide variety of flowers are looking up at them. It paints such a lovely picture that Enjolras almost misses the body, surrounded by pink camellias, marigolds, tea-colored roses and daffodils.

Combeferre frowns. “It’s a man.” Joly kneels down next to the body. “Victim is male, dark-haired, mid-twenties,” he pokes in the cheek. “Victim looks as if he’s dead for less than eight hours, but body temperature is much lower than expected.”

“Hypothermia?” Bahorel comes closer to the body. Joly nods. “Probably. The team will be here in ten minutes. I’ll get a precise cause of death in my lab, tonight.”

Valjean nods. “I suggest that we all go home. Joly, if you want, you can take the day off tomorrow. Please do so.” Joly rubs his eyes. “It’s fine.” he says. “I’ll call Boss and explain everything.” He grins. “Remember I used to be a Med student. Pulling all-nighters isn’t a foreign concept to me.” They all laugh at that, and one by one people start to leave, until Enjolras is the only officer left. A van stops, and the rest of their forensic team gets out. “Go.” Joly says. “We can handle this, trust me.”

Enjolras is just about to protest -he wants to stay- when something in the corner of his eye claims his attention. He picks it up. It’s a small notebook, and when he opens it, a familiar handwriting greets him. He recognizes it from cherished coffee cups and black boards with pastry puns. He skips over the pages. Skillfully done sketches of the Musain, the city and people he recognizes as Javert, Fantine and Feuilly greet him. Notes on philosophy and ballet poses. There are a few tickets to operas and dance performances stuffed in the back, and Enjolras holds his breath. This is a clear window into someone’s life.

“Hey, that’s mine.” Grantaire says behind him, voice stained with surprise. “How did that get here? I’ve been using a new one for what, two weeks now?” He snatches it from Enjolras’ frozen hands.

Suddenly, he becomes afraid. How _did_ it end up there?

He thinks of the piles victim information he has studied the past weeks. Hobbies include; Art, dancing, reading. All the victims had both a gym membership and a library card. All the victims had tattoos done by the same tattoo parlor. A very popular one, so Enjolras and his idiotic head hadn’t really paid attention to it. The graduation to darker hair colors, from female to male.

“I need to see your wallet.”

Grantaire frowns. “Are you okay? You’re breathing really fast.” His hands disappears and ducks up, now filled with a beat up leather wallet. Enjolras grabs it and goes through his cards, blatantly ignoring Grantaire’s protest of privacy.

The same gym membership and library card, a discount card for ballet shoes, a business card from the tattoo parlor. Enjolras heart feels as if it’s ripped out of his body and thrown at his feet. Grantaire’s next. Grantaire is next. Grantaire is the next victim.

Grantaire is going to _die_ , and Enjolras can’t breathe.

“Hey, maybe you should sit down.” Grantaire’s hands land on his shoulders and push him towards one of Fantine’s small chairs. “C’mon hero boy, breathe for me.”

There it is. Breathe. Enjolras has to breathe. Grantaire will stop breathing very soon. He looks into the blue eyes above him, thinks of the wonderful man in front of him. In a flash, he hears Feuilly mentioning that yes, that is Grantaire’s art on the wall. He hears Cosette’s lyrical waxing about his pastries, and remembers that one day he sneaked in and saw him dancing on Prokofiev.

“Jesus Enjolras, you have to calm down.”

Suddenly, Joly’s voice cuts through the haze that is his mind. “Enjolras, can you hear me?” and Enjolras wants to answer, really, but all he can think of his Grantaire’s death, and he’s spiralling down into darkness, suffocated by panicked strings of fear.

“I’ll take it from here, R. Go home.” says Joly’s voice, and Enjolras wants to scream _no no you can’t leave you’ll die_ but his voice can’t form words, stuffed full with emotion.

Grantaire stands up, leaving Enjolras’ mind screaming hopeless warnings.

***

He wakes up with tears waterfalling from his cheeks.

Joly is rubbing his back and Bossuet is rubbing his feet and Enjolras cries, cries, cries so hard he’s afraid he’ll never stop.

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” Joly’s voice is gentle, both in tone and in volume, but it makes Enjolras just cry more. “Should I call double C?” Bossuet asks. “Do that and I will text Cosette.”

They’re both standing up when Enjolras’ phone chimes. Joly picks it up and opens it, which is possible because Enjolras is too lazy to change his pin from 0000 to something secure. He has finally stopped crying and waits for the message report.

It never comes. There’s a cracking sound and Enjolras’ phone falling on the ground, Joly following not long after. In a flash, Bossuet is next to him.

“Jolllly, what’s the matter?”

“Phone,” Joly’s voice is thick with tears and all Enjolras’ fear from the past night hits him like a freight train in the face. He hastily picks up the phone.

Someone texted him a photo. The image is blurry, but a person is pale and dark-haired. They’re lying on the floor, already surrounded by flowers. Flowers. They all know what the flowers mean.

“Grantaire.” The sound is ripped from his throat. Bossuet plucks the phone from his hand. “Jesus.” He hauls them both up. “Okay, we have to get this to the station.”

Enjolras has never been more thankful for Bossuet in his life. He doesn’t only manages to get them both in the car, he also makes sure none of them have a mental breakdown before they reach the police station.

Enjolras’ hand is trembling when he storms into the hall, to their desks. Joly and Bossuet are behind him, followed by the frantic energy of panic. He sprints into Javert’s office and slams the phone down on the desk.

Javert opens his mouth to protest, but he frowns when he sees their faces and looks at the photo. Five seconds later he’s up and running towards Valjean’s office. Valjean is filling in forms at his desk, and drops his pen in surprise when they storm in.

“What’s-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Javert almost jams the phone up his nose. “My son.” His voice wobbles like a leaf in a hurricane. Enjolras doesn’t know much about Javert, but he knows he was once married. If Grantaire is really dead - _if?_ snipes a hidden voice  _there were flowers, of_ course _he’s dead_ -, the inspector is now alone. Valjean pushes his chair back. “We need to get the whole unit here.” The tension that surrounds them is so thick you could cut squares from it and fold paper cranes from all their fear, anger and paranoia.

Ten minutes later,  Enjolras is in the middle of a tempest, helpless chaos fueling the actions of the unit more than ever. Cosette and Fantine, both red-eyed, are in Valjean’s office. He knows his eyes are red, too, because everybody is avoiding looking at him.

They’re handling this case like they would every other, but there’s a forceful efficiency. Combeferre is going over Enjolras’ notes, Javert gazing over his shoulder. Enjolras phone chimes again. The whole office freezes, as if someone pushed the pause button of life.

Enjolras opens the new text with shaking motions and is greeted with the sign of a struggling Grantaire. The flood of relief is so powerful that he sags down in a chair, limbs loose and exhausted. He’s finally crumbling because Grantaire is still alive.

It could be okay. They can fix this. Combeferre immediately jerks forward, lays his hands on the phone and restarts the video.

There’s a hand in view, too, scarred and big. A enormous black ring rests around the ring finger and there’s a gasp and cursing behind him. “That’s not possible.”

It’s Montparnasse. Courfeyrac had rushed over when he’d heard the news, and Éponine and him had followed. Enjolras hadn’t thought that he would turn out to be actually useful. “You know him?” he says, rising up from the chair.

Montparnasse twirls one of his bracelets around his finger like some kind of showman and like he’s not taking this serious at all. Anger rises in Enjolras’ throat.

“You should calm down,” Montparnasse says and that was exactly where he was waiting for. He dives forward, closes his hands around his shoulders. There are bones under his fingers and he’s able to break all of them, right now. He throws him against a wall.

“Who is it?” Red mist is creeping up his vision when Combeferre janks him back. “Are you crazy?” Montparnasse shouts. Enjolras sags back down in his chair. Javert’s voice is very low, very threatening and very intimidating when he says; “Spill, boy, and we’ll listen.”

Montparnasse takes a deep breath. “I used to live a life that wouldn’t get met through heaven’s doors. Hell, it probably still won’t. Together with him, Claquesous, and two friends, we were the best fucking criminals out there. You wanted something shady done, you came to us. We did everything, from art smuggling to robberies to assassinations. I got out,” his eyes flash to Éponine, “and went to study journalism. They didn’t, but Patron Minette fell apart soon after I left.”

“Patron Minette?” Enjolras has heard that name whispered a thousand time, passed over like an alcohol-driven disease in the shadows of bars. Montparnasse grins, crooked and utterly absent of any sort of happiness. “Yeah. Unofficial leader and all.”

Suddenly Enjolras gets an idea. Combeferre shakes his head and Courfeyrac is already frowning. “No.” they both say in unison.

“But-”

Javert looks up. “What?” Combeferre frowns. “Enjolras wants to go undercover with Montparnasse.”

Javert actually looks interested at that. “It could work.” Courfeyrac slams his hand down on a desk, hard enough to make a lot of things rattle and make it dramatic. “No!”

Valjean is thinking. “He knows Claquesous and his ways. They could make it work.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Cosette’s voice is soft, but the sharp edge cuts everybody’s ears. “What if he ends up, covered in flowers, too? What are you going to do when you have to bury your son, papa?”

Valjean looks at Enjolras, and turns to Cosette. “Your brother is a skilled officer. This won’t be his first time.” Bahorel stands up and joins his boss. “We’ll be there as backup.” He says. “With a codeword and all. Our boy will not be harmed.” He sends Montparnasse a firm glare. It’s a warning. Cosette throws her hands up in frustration. “Fine! But if he gets hurt, or worse,” her voice breaks and Enjolras feels so guilty, but he has to do this, has to save Grantaire, “I’m coming for you. All of you.”

Enjolras  lifts his head, and gives Montparnasse a hard look. “If you betray us, I’ll throw your body in the Hudson.”

“Seriously?” someone suddenly yells. “You fucking idiots.” Éponine steps into the light, voice laced with anger. She stalks over to Montparnasse and slaps him in the face. Then she pulls him in a hug. “You better come back in one piece, or I swear to god.” Her eyes soften and she strokes his hair. “You got out for a good reason, ‘Parnasse. Remember that.”

Enjolras knows the whole deal isn’t bulletproof, but it’s the only thing they can do. Montparnasse is their only lead to finding Grantaire. To saving Grantaire. And though he doesn’t exactly care for Montparnasse, with his shark smiles and gold leather jacket, at least he knows he can at least trust him.

***

When Grantaire wakes up, he still smells flowers everywhere.

It’s a scent that’s never ending. He wakes because of pain, blood staining precious petals, and falls asleep because of something that should be exhaustion. It’s feels closer to death than he’d like.

The guy in the creepy mask is back, which doesn’t help with the whole almost-death situation. “Don’t hurt yourself.” he says when Grantaire immediately starts to struggle against the zip-ties that bind him. Mask starts to set up his daily arraignment of flowers. Grantaire feels disgust crawl up his throat when he smells the fresh batch. He’s going to be ruined forever, he will snap in a flower shop and crush the children of the earth under his feet. Or maybe just cut off his nose, so he won’t be intoxicated by their scent and hauled back into misery the second the opening tunes of spring dance through the air.

He’s so drugged up.

Creepy Mask digs out a cheap cellphone and holds it to Grantaire’s ear. “What-” There’s a laugh that could have a contest in horribleness with the mask and the flowers. “You’re going to make someone’s day,” the guy smirks. “Or, let’s hope so, at least.”

“Hello?” and _oh_. Grantaire’s heart jumps and slams its nails into the lining of his throat in a panicked frenzy. Enjolras.

“Enjolras?” he says, and his voice is raw of neglect and emotion. “Grantaire?” Enjolras’ voice peaks and there are people talking in the background and he’s tired, so tired. “Where are you? Do you know where you are?”

“I’m on the floor,” Grantaire says, eyes dropping already. He grimaces. “There are a lot of flowers here, but it’s not right. It doesn’t fit.”

Enjolras makes a noise that is built out of hurt and Grantaire hates him so much, hates him so much for making him miss him more than the oxygen that’s not reaching his throat when it’s squeezed tight. With his last energy, he tips his head back in the flowers and lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I have no idea what’s going on here,” he says, which is absolutely one hundred percent true, because this was never his fault, just Enjolras’ and he was the one that dragged him into this even though he can’t hate him for it.

“I know, I know.” Enjolras says, choked up and Grantaire realizes he said that out loud. Then the phone is taken away from him and he reaches for it even though he shouldn’t want this, because talking to Enjolras feel like flying, like dying, like ride in the getaway car that must be illusion, racing against reality.

But now he’s gone, and his eyes start to droop once more. He thinks of dying.

It’s not the first time, in here. He lies down on the flowers and wonders what it will be like to stop breathing.

****

Enjolras’ heart is earthquaking in his chest.

 _I’d thought you’d be better at this, captain_. The words of Claquesous are still ringing in his ears. They hurt so much because they are true.

Enjolras’ grip on his phone tightens, and he hates it, but Claquesous is right. He’s usually much, much better at this. He’s blinded by emotion, and it’s ripping apart vital organs inside of him. Not only is he doing this like some kind of green-hearted rookie, Claquesous _noticed_.  

It’s rage and failure and fear, because maybe he’s never going to find him and Grantaire will be lost forever. He shakes head. Usually, he’s not like this,  and that makes it just one more reason why he’s going to strangle Claquesous to death.

Montparnasse is eyeing him from behind a laptop and Enjolras tries to calm down. After a few minutes, Montparnasse nods at him and he nods back.

It’s been two days since Grantaire’s call, two days of Montparnasse picking weapons like jewellry and getting hit on the shoulder by people who could easily have planned the death of Obama next Tuesday. Every time someone says; “I knew you never got out!”, Enjolras notes the hurt in Montparnasse’s light eyes. He never mentions it.

“Today?” Enjolras asks. Montparnasse bites lip. “No. Tomorrow. Then I have a location”

“How?”

“Some questions are not to be answered,” he says. He shuts his laptop and walks to their suitcases. “C’mon, moving time.”

They hop hotels every night. They don’t unpack their suitcases. They both stopped sleeping full nights.

It dawns on Enjolras that Montparnasse still is a professional, and thinks, maybe it’s a skill you never lose, like cycling. Gratitude wells up in him, because If it wasn’t for Montparnasse, they’d probably all be staring at a conspiracy board, with Grantaire dying like background music .

He looks at him, ignores the the weird leather jackets, his shark-like smirks and silver Dr. Martins, and realises that he knows what he’s doing.

That night, someone pounds on his door, and Enjolras almost doesn’t answer it until he realises it could be very important.

He yanks the door open and it’s not quite a surprise to see Montparnasse standing there., wearing nothing but high-class sweatpants and holding two knives. A gun is strapped to his thigh and there’s a third knife in his sock.

“Who were you talking to?” Montparnasse asks. “No one” Enjolras says. “Just, dreaming.”

His eyes turn that bit softer and he pockets the knives. “Good,” Montparnasse says, and walks away.

Enjolras closes the door, can't think of anything besides the language of losing still in his head.

***

Two days later than planned, Montparnasse storms red-cheeked into Enjolras’ hotel room.

“We’ve got  a location.”

Enjolras jumps up and knocks over about five different kinds of knives off the bed. “Then what are we waiting for?”

***

Enjolras looks at Montparnasse. “What’s the plan?”

“Attack, grab Grantaire, get out.” The ex-criminal says. “At least, for you. I’ll take care of Claquesous.” He smirks and twirls his knife. “Give me those handcuffs.”  

“Remember, I want him alive.” Enjolras warns, while unhooking the handcuffs from his belt. “No funny business. We can always hurt him later.” Montparnasse’s answering gaze is full of dark promises. Enjolras approves. They exchange looks, check their weapons and  step into the loft.

That what bugs him the most. The place where Claquesous was hiding, it’s a normal downtown loft. He threw away the mobile phones after every message and call, made sure he was untraceable, while all this time he was hiding in a fucking loft. With neighbors. Enjolras is going to rip him apart.

Montparnasse whips his gun out and kicks the door open. So much for subtleties, then. He turns to him to say something about being careful when someone on his right coughs.

“Gentlemen,” a voice cuts through the thick air of the room, from a doorway to the side, and Enjolras can’t see him, will have to turn to see him, but Montparnasse’s eyes darken and his expression transforms into something truly terrifying. He doesn’t have to turn around. Claquesous.

“‘Parnasse, it’s been so long.” Enjolras turns around and is greeted by the sight of a tall man wearing one of those ancient bird masks. His dark hair is tied up in a ponytail and the same dark ring from the video rests proudly on the finger of his left hand. “Too long. When I heard from people that you were looking for me, I thought you wanted to come back. Not save that pretty baker with his ridiculous object of affection.” His voice is pleasant, polished and polite, like the voice-over for a Mercedes commercial. Enjolras has to dig his nails in his hand to stop himself from breaking his nose. Montparnasse looks murderous.

Claquesous makes a careless gesture with his hand, and the ring catches the light. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dying now.”

He makes a sound and locks eyes with the man who he hates like pure melted fury in his veins. Claquesous grins and and says, “I’m sorry,” and Enjolras snaps forward, fist connecting with the killer’s face, _Grantaire’s killer_ flashes through his head, before he can even think about it. If he thought about it he would’ve had a strategy. Now he just wants to hurt, wants to make him bleed like his heart is bleeding in his chest, wants to make him suffer like he is now, because Grantaire is gone.

They both fall to the floor, and he is vaguely aware that he is screaming, shouting, crying. Blood and threats fly through the air, because this is the man who killed Grantaire, who followed him, left a trail of innocent bodies in his wake and who humiliated Enjolras and now he has killed Grantaire, who is - _was_ \- so vibrant and full of life and Enjolras didn't even have the chance to tell him he loved him a little bit, maybe. He’s filled with satisfaction when the man hurts him back, because he has deserved all the pain in the world. He is the one who was unable to kill Grantaire. He dragged him into this. He was the one too busy having a panic attack when he could have saved him. Could have put patrol on his house, could have shadowed and protect and  keep him alive. Which he isn’t, anymore.

He doesn’t know if half an hour or two days has passed,  but he’s content hurting and being hurt. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Montparnasse’s shouting at him, the sound of sirens outside, and then strong hands pull him away. He struggles and Bahorel whispering in his ear is the only thing to make him stop fighting back.

Javert is handcuffing Claquesous against the wall, and Valjean is quietly talking to Montparnasse. Who asked for backup. Enjolras is grateful, because he’s sure he would’ve killed Claquesous, like he has killed Grantaire.

Grantaire.

Enjolras swallows away what possible could be an Nile of tears, and lets himself calm down enough that Bahorel lets him go. Then he stalks towards Claquesous, everybody holds their breath, and punches him again. Only once, though.

“Where is he?” he hisses, ready to break every bone in his worthless body if he doesn’t answer. Claquesous grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Suddenly, there’s a gun pressed to his temple. “You are exactly going to tell me where you’re keeping my son, or I will shoot off every limb you possess, before killing you.” Javert says, voice as calm as the hour before a hurricane. Claquesous points to the doorway on his left.

Everybody snaps into action. There are doors kicked down, and for a second Enjolras is so scared, scared that they’re fooled by this awful human being, but then the third door opens and Grantaire is lying in a bed of flowers.

Joly runs to him and grabs his wrist. “He’s still alive.” he says and Enjolras feels a wave of relief so intense he sits down on the floor, next to Grantaire. Who is still alive.

Enjolras is vaguely aware of the fact that there might be tears somewhere, but he’s too busy with the sight of the man in front of him to care.

“Grantaire?” He touches his eyelids tentatively, careful, and strokes the other hand through his hair.

“Enjolras?” a voice croaks, and yes, now there are definitely tears. He’s never been this happy in his life. “Yes.” he says, voice heavy with emotion. “Yes, yes, it’s me. Grantaire, I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire opens one, beautiful eye and looks at him. “What happened?”

“You catched the serial killer of the century,” Enjolras says, moving his free hand to cup Grantaire’s cheek. “And now we’re taking you home.”

Apparently, Grantaire is strong enough to sit up, because he does, and stares at Enjolras. “I’m going to be ruined for flowers forever.” he says, and stands up.

In a flash, Enjolras is next to him, supporting him. He wants to reply, wants to tell him he will do everything possible to make him enjoy flowers again. That he will bathe him in flowers every day of the rest of his life, if he wants to. Instead, he tangles their fingers together, because they have left the eye of the hurricane and they’re coming back down. Grantaire squeezes and looks down at Enjolras with blue, happy eyes and Enjolras never wants to let him go.

He reaches up, strokes a finger along the line of his jaw and presses their mouths together, soft and comforting, because Grantaire deserves it. Enjolras tastes all the flavors of spring in that one kiss, and knows everything will be better from now on.  

***

One-and-a-half day later, Courfeyrac drops the paper between half-eaten cupcakes . “You guys made it to the front page.” Enjolras grabs the paper with one hand, the other too busy with holding Grantaire’s, and looks at the headline.

**BOTANIST CAPTURED: NEW YORK CAN BREATHE AGAIN**

A picture of a captured Claquesous beneath it, and Enjolras is going to cut it out and stick it to his wall. He lets the paper fall down.

“Awesome.” Grantaire grins next to him. “I’ve never been in a paper before.” Enjolras can’t help but smile at his excited face, and Grantaire catches him looking and smiles back.

“This is really sweet.” Marius grinned dreamily, with Cosette on his lap. Apparently they found each other when Enjolras and Montparnasse were hunting down Claquesous. He still has to get the shovel talk. Enjolras is working on it. “You two are so cute.”

Enjolras glares at him. “Don’t call me cute, Pontmercy, unless you want it to be the last thing you ever do. Remember I’m your supervisor.”

Joly laughs at that, clearly unimpressed. He and Bossuet are busy planning their seduction of the newest addition to the Musian’s staff, a waitress called Musichetta, fierce and funny. Valjean is flirting with Fantine at the counter. He looks at them, and both Enjolras and Grantaire give him a thumbs up. He laughs and continues his conversation.

Enjolras leans back in his chair, stroking over Grantaire’s hand with his thumb, and watches Jehan tell a story to a captivated Courfeyrac.

Today, spring has truly began.

 


End file.
